


Gold and the banker

by SignorinaAnarchia



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Death, Deal with a Devil, Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not Beta Read, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Conflict, Suicidal Thoughts, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SignorinaAnarchia/pseuds/SignorinaAnarchia
Summary: “I’m offering you a second chance, Martìn. You can live without your soul, but can you live without him?”Martìn takes a look at the wide open window, the floor full of empty bottles, the dusty forniture, his purple knuckles, glasses everywhere.Days ago, he broke a glass and never bothered to clean up.Now, he catch a glimpse of his eye in a shimmering fragment, and barely recognizes himself.He doesn’t recognizes anything in his life anymore, since Andrés’s not there to make it mean something.“I don’t think so”.Or: Martìn sells his soul to the Devil to get Andrés back.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 18
Kudos: 54





	1. Day without a night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> I’ve been silently reading fics in this fandom for months, and I want to congratulate all of you for how talented you are.  
> You really inspired me to write this!
> 
> That’s the first time I start a long-fic, and I hope I can complete it.  
> I’m not going to lie: this is going to be extremely angsty and dark, so please pay attention to TWs. 
> 
> Unfortunately, English’s not my first language, and this’s probably full of mistakes, so I apologize right away!
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

Tonight, he thinks, is one of those nights.

His arms hangs down from the couch, the bottle stitched to his hand as one.

His head hurts like a bitch, full of confused thoughts and misleading memories.

_ He snorted cocaine - no, it was meth - and fucked al least three strangers, maybe four, in a shabby disco toilet. _

_ He stole six cars in two weeks, and then pushed them in a cliff just for fun. _

_ He burned five hundred euros in bills of five with his lighter. _

_ He beat a man and left him bleeding to death in a dark alley.   
_

_ He has no clue if he’s dead or not, and he doesn’t give a fuck, he doesn’t give a single fuck about anything, about what is real and what is not. _

Maybe he’s going mad.

Can’t wait for it to happen.

He is undecided whether to faint or to throw up, maybe both, so he can finally choke in his own puke and put an end to this circus once and for all.

He has been thinking about it a lot.

He always thought he would’ve shooted his brain off, more like him, but sometimes he finds his brain indulging in another kind of fantasies. 

_ He cuts his vein in the bathtub. _

_ He poisons his own glass of wine. _

_He hangs himself up to the chandelier in the kitchen, the one he’s always hated_.

Oh, and what about simulating a short-circuite?

He has enough electrical knowledge, they wouldn’t even investigate...

It’s not like they would anyway.

His bad, bad brain. Once so reliable, more like a colander now.

The first time he feels disgust for himself, planning his suicide like a damn robbery, but then he couldn’t stop thinking about it, he tried  _ everything _ , and nothing works, just his fucking mind works and works and works...

Suicidal thoughts slowly become part of his routine.

Before he knew it, he finds himself buying cans at supermarket and wondering if it’s better being strike dead, or smashed on the ground.

He doesn’t even know why he’s procrastinating.

It’s not like  _ he _ will ever come back.

There’s a silly little part of him trying to keep him afloat, whispering in his ears that though Andrés is dead, it doesn’t mean that everything has to end with him.

Martìn drowns it in the bathtub along with tequila and his own vomit.

When he’s strong enough, he washes the smell of strangers off of his body. 

In the last month, that hardly ever happens.

He’s never been so dumb to think he would’ve worked properly like he used to, but it’s been almost three years now, and it’s getting even worse. 

Suicidal thoughts are his only friends, and they’re getting increasingly violent and bloody.

It’s been almost three years, and it still feels like yesterday when he kept his eyes glued to the television for eleven days and eleven nights, without drinking, nor eating, nor fucking strangers either.

It still feels like yesterday when his lips moved, rattling prayers off like a child to a God he didn’t believe in. 

It still feels like yesterday that, when finally Andrés appeared - pale, wasted, with his face tired and a bandage on his head - Martìn knelt down, and rested his forehead against his, only able to reach the cold glass of the screen.

It still feels like yesterday he whispered  _come back to me_ , hijo de puta. _Come back_ . 

But Andrés never came back, and Martìn stopped praying.

And hoping.

And living.

✯

_ God never forgets about us . _

He heard that a thousand times, and laughed harder every time.

_ Funny _ , he used to think as he worked the streets,  _ because I get the feeling that God has no idea who the fuck I am. God created me, and then abandoned me, just like a child tired of his old toys . _

Just like Andrés did.

In some kind of way, Andrés was his God.

For over ten years he followed his commandments, paying him back with praises, devotion and votive offerings. 

He bursts into a wheezing laugh thinking about how he would’ve loved to kneel before him.

But then, Andrés didn’t even allow him to do so. 

He choosed to die during the stupid plan of his brother, rather than spend his last years next to his soulmate.

And now he’s dead, and Martìn would like to beg his ghost to haunt him as in a stupid nineteenth-century novel, but just the whole idea sounds absurd.

In life, it has always been him haunting Andrés.

Andrés never followed him, never looked for him, never asked for him. 

He never had to.

Martìn stood always there, like a golden tie clip, of addition if present, unnecessary if absent.

And that leads him to this night.

He thinks that it could be  _ the one _ , the night in which he’ll finally stop to plain it and really manage to do it. 

Why not.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Luckily, it will be the last.

No regrets, because all of his regrets are related to Andrés.

No memories, because they all involve Andrés. 

And not a single reason to live for, because he no longer has Andrés. 

The truth’s that he’s scared. Just a bit.

Afterwards there might be nothing at all, and while it sounds kind of peaceful, going in a another place without Andrés seems purely senseless.

He tries to figure out someone crying on his corpse.

He can’t.

And that’s the thing.

  
He has nothing left on this earth.

Just his filthy, ripped soul, been agonizing for three years since it lost its best part.

Martìn thinks he would give that away too.

_ Like it really mattered . _

He drops the bottle from his hand. It miraculously doesn’t break, but it rolls spreading alcohol all across the floor.

Staggering, he stands up from the couch and heads to the window.

The handle is rusty.

It has been closed for months.

After a few attempts, he manages to open it. 

He deeply inspires the humid air of Palermo, and it’s even worse.

His injured lungs reject it, he feels so sick, and his head’s turning so hard he’s not sure he can hang on, really, if he doesn’t want to fall he has to get away right now, but in the end _why should him_ , that’s the best way, he can leave without even notice...

A huge hand hits his chest, and he finds himself thrown off in the backwards.

✯

He falls to the living room floor, pale, breathless and drenched in sweat.

As he shivers, breaking into spasm and sobs, his brain feels like wrapped in cotton.

He cannot conceive a single rational explanation of what just happened, he was falling, really falling, and then...

“C’mon, Martìn, I don’t have the whole night”.

His muscles paralize.

The voice, deep and masculine, comes from his back.

He turns slowly, and finds himself staring at an elegant pair of brown leather shoes.

Now.

Martìn could be drunk, high, and sick with grief.

But he’s perfectly aware that his apartment’s lock is burglar-proof. 

He designed it himself.

No one could ever break it open, not even Houdini in the flesh.

_ Not even Andrés . _

He looks up to scan the man better.

He’s tall, extremely tall, maybe six-two, and he’s dressed to the nine in a three-pieces twill suit. 

Martìn can’t see his faces properly, since it’s hidden in the half-light by a 20s wide-brimmed hat.

“Who the fuck are you?” he finally spits.

The Stranger laughs, and something in the sound hurts his ears.

If he was thinking of scaring him off, he didn’t succeed.

“C’mon, Martìn. You’re so clever. Try to guess”.

Martìn’s brain, full of alcohol and hardly distinguishing reality from fantasy, is trying to elaborate informations.

It can’t.

“How...how did you-”

“Do you believe in God, Martìn?”

He snorts sarcastically.

“Can’t see how I could”.

“Yeah. Exactly. But you still believe in me, I suppose. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here staring at this drain you call an apartment”.

Awareness is surfacing in his mind.

”I know who you are”.

“You do?”

Sickness is gone, and he’s pervaded by a deep sense of peace.

“Am I dead? Am I in hell?”

“Not strictly speaking, no. As long as you can find the difference with your life”.

This doesn’t make any sense at all.

If he’s not dead...

“Why’re you here, then? What do you want from me?”

The Stranger wave a hand, impatiently.

“No, Martìn. You’re mixing the parts. The true question is what do  _ you _ want from  _ me _ ”.

Martìn has heard about deals with the Devil before, but it seems like a lifetime ago, when he still enjoyed life and B-movies.

“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? If it’s, I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Call the police? C’mon, Martìn, an upstanding citizen like you...”

“How...how do you know...”

“I do know everything”.

For the umpteenth time in his life, Martìn feels so small, curled up on the floor while this well-dressed man towers over him.

It reminds him of something, some memories of his childhood he just wants to forget.

The Stranger slowly treads his floor, taking a look around. 

There’s something powerful in Him, walking like he’s the fucking boss in the room, and that’s why Martìn winces when He suddenly bends to his height.

“What do you want, then?” 

This time, the answer rises immediately to his lips.

“Andrés. I want Andrés back”.

“Ah. I see” the Stranger stands up abruptly, looking satisfied like a cat that got the cream.

He walks around the room, waving his arms as he speaks:

“And  _ how _ do you want him? Alive? Madly in love with you? Kinder? Smarter? Someone you can grow old with?”

Martìn swallows. 

All these prospects are both thrilling and scaring the hell out of him.

“Or maybe you just want his corpse? A grave to cry over? You should make up your mind, Martìn, I’m a busy man”.

He just stares out of the window, thinking.

There’s something he needs to know.

“He... is he with you?”

”Where else, then?”

Yeah. Where else.

“And you... are you really... ?” he leaves the question pending, not daring to utter His name.

“Of course”.

“Then you know how I want him”.

The Devil skeptically shrugs.

“Right. A little bit complicated, if you’re asking me, but... a deal’s a deal.” 

“A deal...” ponders Martìn “and what could you possibly want back from me?My soul?” 

It’s intended to be sneering. 

Instead, the Devil answers:

“Yes. I just want your soul”.

Now he’s quite certain, this weirdo is making fun of him. 

Poor, lonely Martìn, crying for his dead beloved, unable even to commit suicide...

He must have become a urban legend.

“Listen. If you think I’m so desperate to...” 

“All right”.

The Devil flap his heels, heading for the door.

“Like I said, I’m a busy man. Nice to meet you, Martìn. Think of this as an odd, odd nightmare. In a minute, you’ll wake up right where I found you: on the edge of the window. Have a good night”. 

Seeing a well-dressed man that turns away makes him feel sick again. 

Before he knows it, he’s already shouting: 

“No!” as expected, He stops “just... wait”. As He turns back, though Martìn can’t see his face, he can say He’s satisfied. 

“Was I going to die?” 

“How it seems”. 

“So why didn’t you leave me fall? Now I’d be in hell anyway”.

“I never do anything without a reason, Martìn. Learn it”.

He swipes a finger on the windowsill, and retracts it dirty with dust. 

“So I take it you’re accepting the agreement?“

Martìn just swallows.

“You have to tell me, if I’m dreaming” now he’s almost crying, the tiredness accumulated for three years weighing on his shoulders “you  need to tell me, because I really couldn’t bear to wake up tomorrow”. 

The Devil blows the dust away from his finger, looking nothing but bored. 

“Believe me, Martin, I know. No. This is not a dream, it’s just an honest deal between two dealer”. 

Martin’s not a great reader, but he’s ready to bet there’s a lot of literature on why you shouldn’t make a deal with the Devil. 

“What if I give you my soul, and he doesn’t come back at all?” 

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust anyone”. 

_ And how could he? _

His whole life was a concentrate of wounds, neglects, loneliness, indignities, like chewing stones and never making a single noise about it.

“For as I see it, Martìn, the question is: what do you need most? Your soul, or your man?” 

He snorts, tears flowing freely now.

“He wasn’t my man. He never was”. 

“This time he could be”. 

The sentence strikes him like a lightning. How many nights he spent wondering  _ what if I hadn’t done this, what if I hadn’t done that, what if I had told him, what if he wasn’t ill, what if he was alive... _

“I’m offering you a second chance, Martìn. You  can live without your soul, but can you live without  _ him _ ?” 

Martìn takes a look at the wide open window, the floor full of empty bottles, the dusty forniture, his purple knuckles, glasses everywhere. 

Days ago, he broke a glass and never bothered to clean up. 

Now, he catch a glimpse of his eye in a shimmering fragment, and barely recognizes himself. 

He doesn’t recognizes anything in his life anymore, since Andrés’s not there to make it mean something.

“I don’t think so”.

This time, the Devil openly indulges in a huge smile. 

Martìn can catch in his glance a look of triumph, the same he used to see in the only pair of dark eyes that mattered to him. 

“So, does your ugly little soul worth Andrés?”

_ Andrés.  _

Martìn thinks that he could give his beating heart as well, just to see him one more time. 

“It does. A million times, it does.”

✯

_Emptiness_.

That’s something Martìn always thought he felt, but really experienced only after Andrés’s death.

However, when He slightly touches his face with a hand, Martìn’s ready to swear he’s going back in time.

In a moment, he feels like when he heard that Andrés, terminally ill, defamed by police, injured by his comrades, was bullet-ridden dead in the Mint.

All those nights he spent figuring out his corpse, thrown into an unmarked grave, eaten up by worms, as if he hasn’t once been the most glorious man who ever walked this earth, suddenly feel like nothing.

_ Nothing _ .

That’s the only thing he can perceive when the Devil’s fingers withdraw, and he’s left empty like a laundry bag.

His eyes snap closed, he’s worn out, he just wants to rest...

As in a fog, he can barely see Him turning and heading for the door.

“Hey! Where are you going to?”

“I’m done here. A deal’s a deal, Martìn. You’ll get what you want”.

“When...how?!”

“Soon. Very soon. Trust me”.

“Wait!”

Once again, He stops and turns around. Martìn can see He’s annoyed, but he just need to tell Him.

“You...you look like him”.

This time, the Devil doesn’t hold the laughter back.

“No, Martin, I don’t.  _ He _ looks like  _ me _ ”.

✯

Martìn swears as he opens his eyes.

Light coming in through the open window hurts his bloody pupils.

He tries to roll away from the hateful glare.

Bad move.

His bones hurt like a bitch. 

Clear, he slept on the floor.

He curses himself for mixing alcohol, meth and sleeping pills.

_ Last night he had the weirdest dream. _

Just thinking about it makes him going nuts.

What an idiot he is.

A loud knock on the door distracts him from his self-pity.

That’s odd, he never recives visitors at all. 

Street vendors, for sure. 

The last one ran away from his house screaming and crying after Martìn drawn out his gun, but for some reason he doesn’t feel like threatening this morning.

He just ignores him, hoping he will stop soon.

He doesn’t stop.

Several knocks later, getting louder and louder, he starts thinking that whoever it is, he must be really a pain in the ass. 

And not the kind he appreciates. 

Damn door, it doesn’t even have a spyhole. 

He doesn’t care. It’s not like he’s going to get up anyway.

“Fuck you! I don’t need your fucking vacuum cleaner!”

The knocks finally stop. 

He’s right thinking about crawling to the bedroom and faint on his bed, when he hears the handle turning. 

Hypnotized as in a dream, he watches the doorknob unscrewing from the hinges and falling on the floor, rolling up to his leg. 

Then, the door swings open, and a black shoe of execellent manufacture finally tread on his filthy floor.


	2. Soul without a mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back! 
> 
> I apologize for the delay, I've been working on a personal project which kept me busy for months. Hopefully, in the next few weeks I'll be more free, so I'm counting to post the next chapter relatively soon.
> 
> Enjoy this one & check the TWs!

When he was a child, he knew a story that went more or less like this.

_Once upon a time there was a man, the most evil man who ever walked on this Earth._

_First of all, he was a thief: gold, silver, precious stones, everything he could find in a pocket, pinned on a doublet or hung around a neck, was going to be his._

_Also, he was an unapologetic fornicator, a whoremonger, a bugger, and a raper._

_Once he had chosen his victim, there was no man, woman or child who was safe from his insatiable hunger._

_Moreover, he was a sadist, cruel and ruthless: he spent his life torturing animals, breaking young hearts, starting brawls, murdering innocents, and causing pain just for the fun of it._

_This man was also pretty eccentric: he used to wear elegant and colorful clothes and strut like a peacock._

_It was his way of scaring enemies, even though everybody already avoided him, partly for hatred, partly for fear._

_Everyone who knew him was scared by his angry temper, and quickly changed his course to avoid meeting him._

_When they saw him walking the street, women would board their windows up, whispering "he’s more of a demon than a man", and pray the Lord to take his soul with Him as soon as possible._

_Afterwards, when the man realized he was becoming increasingly more and more alone, he began to wear a black mask to hide his face, and thus better strike his victims._

_His name was Arlequin._

  
  


_One day, during a fight, his eye was hit by a stab which trespassed his skull, and without a sound, he finally died._

_He was a blasphemer, and the Heaven gates were closed to him. So, his soul flew straight to Hell._

_Once there, as soon as he came, two demons grabbed his shoulders and dragged him in front of the Devil, Master of Hell._

_“Well, well, well” said Him “what a sinner have you been”._

_“I’m still a sinner, Sir”._

_“Aren’t you scared at all?”_

_“What about you, Sir?”_

_Arlequin talked like the Devil’s presence didn’t even bother him. The Devil, for his part, was meaningfully impressed by the lack of fear he showed._

_“You don’t believe in God”._

_“No, Sir. I don't. But I still believe in you"._

_"You do?"._

_"I can see you every morning when I look in the mirror”._

_To his insolence, the Devil laughed._

_“I like you. You’re cruel, and ruthless, and greedy, and wild. You could be one of the most powerful demons in Hell. Crawl at my feet, and I’ll make you my humble personal servant”._

_Arlequin, who had always been a corpse-eating worm, without hesitation dropped to the ground and crawled towards Him. But as soon as he was close enough, the Devil raised His foot and stepped on his fingers._

_“Did you really think I would do an honest deal with you?” He gritted “I’m the Devil, Master of Hell. And you’re here to be punished”._

_“But, Sir” whined Arlequin “you just said I’m one of the most ruthless souls in this place. Why should you punish me? Actually, I think you should reward me, instead. What would the Devil be without His humble servants whose, in life, spread evil throughout the Earth?”_

_The Devil realized that Arlequin was also a cunning man, trying to cheat Him with his dirty tricks, and He couldn’t deny He was feeling intrigued._

_So, He pretended to play his game._

_“You’re right, wandering soul. I really should reward you. Tell me what you want, and I swear I’ll make all your wildest wishes come true”._

_Arlequin's wicked mouth opened in a smile._

_“Well” he began, pretending to think “I want to fuck and shag and lie with every single body in this Hell. I want women, men, children and beasts, dead or alive, until I can’t take it anymore”._

_The Devil nodded._

_“That’s all?”_

_“No” answered Arlequin, and greediness was dripping down his eyes like melted-_

_“Gold. Silver. Coins. Diamond. Jewels. Precious stones. All the riches lying in this infernal ground, I want”._

_Once again, the Devil agreed._

_“Enough?”_

_"I'm a sinner, Sir. It'll never be enough"._

_The Devil narrowed His cruel eyes._

_"Don't abuse my patience, you rogue. I'm easily annoyed. You're allowed just one more wish."_

_And so, Arlequin continued:_

_“Wine. Fine liqueurs. Loads of great food. Opium, narcs, and any kind of drugs you can find on this mortal soil.”_

_The Devil grinned._

_“Then all these things, you will have”._

_And even though the Devil was a cheater, He kept His promise._

_First of all, Arlequin was allowed to join in the biggests orgies ever seen before._

_And even if time no longer existed at all, he spent long hours lying down, fucking and shagging, giving and receiving pleasure, over and over and over again._

_The Devil and the other demons didn't bother; they were sure that, soon or later, he’d tire himself out._

_But Arlequin seemed relentless; after several days, months, or even years of whoredom, he started to develop sores, wounds and venereal disease. He had bruises all over his body, infections everywhere, and his skin was falling apart, but he still wouldn’t stop._

_In the end, the Devil, exasperated, pulled him out by an arm and pretended to congratulate him._

_“You got my first gift… and you've honored it to the best. Now it's time for me to show you the second one”._

_Suddenly, a shower of coins, precious stones, and all the possible and imaginable kinds of riches began to fall from Hell's fiery sky, burying Arlequin under its weight._

_The Devil leaned back in His throne, satisfied, certain that Arlequin could've never got out from that sea of riches._

_He prepared to assist at his drowning with demonic pleasure, almost tasting sweet pain on His tongue yet._

_But Arlequin was cunning._

_He immediately emerged from the golden shower, nimble like a fish, and without even catching a breath, he started to line his own pocket with all the gold he could find._

_His greediness seemed like a bottomless pit: the more he collected, the more he craved. And while he emptied out all the infernal riches in his pockets, the Devil was secretly gritting His teeth._

_He never once in His non-life had seen such a cupidity in a sinner's soul. A couple of days in Hell were usually quite enough to tame even the worst of villains._

_Arlequin was definitely quite… interesting. Atypical. Maybe a threat._

_But still, once again, the Devil pretended to congratulate._

_“You are the most cunning creature who ever walked through these gates” He praised him “and for that, I decided to make even your third wish come true”._

_All of a sudden, streams of crimson liquors started to gush from the sky and from all the cracks in the ground._

_Tons and tons of wine, precious liqueur and all kinds of alcohol flooded Arlequin; and once again, rather than drowning in that golden river, he opened his mouth and drank, drank, he drank so much he drained all the Hell's stocks._

_“I want more, Sir” he crooned, his eyes fixed on the Devil, a vicious smile on his face which exuded winning._

_The Devil was livid._

_Did that joke of a silly mortal soul actually think he could flout Him?_

_He might even have been the most evil man on the Earth, but if he really believed he could beat the Devil, Master of Hell Himself, he was dead wrong._

_Everything He wanted was to laugh at his foolishness, and punish him harder for his misdeeds, because he had dared to taunt Him._

_Something, however, stopped Him._

_In that creepy man, with a mask to cover his empty socket, He seemed to recognize Himself, when, thousands of years ago, with the power of a tempest, He rose up against God Almighty._

_His fire, his rage, his wild greediness, his blind rebellion against all odds, all of this was just… captivating._

_"What's your name?" He asked._

_“Arlequin, Sir”._

_“Well, Arlequin. You're a man of his word. You were not lying about your reputation”._

_“I lie a lot, Sir. But never to friends" he grinned._

_“I want you to be with me” said the Devil then "by my side. We will rule this place together, and with the two of us joined, there'll not be a living soul who can escape Hell's clutches"._

_Arlequin didn't say anything. He simply curled up at His feet, resting his head against the Devil's throne, and after many days of revelry and binge, he finally fell asleep._

  
  


_He and the Devil became inseparable, in a gorgeous competition to see who was the most evil, and Arlequin was so adept at deceiving, that the Devil almost forgot he was just a simple human, a temporary plaything._

_And thus, they spent thousands of years together, living the best non-life two demons could ever imagine._

_Together, they joked and cheated mankind, always making up new wrongdoings to make sinners fall in Hell’s arms._

_Heaven Gates, once so crowded, now seemed empty and abandoned, since no human soul could resist the two of them's joint power._

_Nonetheless, even though they spent most of the days laughing and reveling in Hell, a sorrow afflicted Arlequin among others._

_He missed his old life. It was a long way from his days as a human, when everyone feared him and old ladies locked their windows as he passed._

_His existence in Hell was… satisfying, for lack of a better word. But his longing for other human beings was growing deeper and deeper by the day._

_He groveled to the Devil, and begged Him to bring him back on the Earth, in order to wreak havoc and spread His evil message._

_After much begging, the Devil agreed, but just for a day, until twilight came._

_One single day was not quite, but Arlequin had to settle for the Devil's concession, and the following day he departed for his old dwelling._

_But the Devil lied._

_He, of all people, knowed well that Earth was full of pitfalls much more than Hell, and He didn't want to risk losing His servant in any manner._

_And so it was that, as soon as Arlequin stepped foot on the ground, a blanket of twilight came to put an end to his time on Earth yet._

_And although he struggled with all his strength, an invisible hand dragged him down below like a wretched ragdoll._

_Upset, he walked through Hell's gates in fury, scaring all the demons on his way, until he arrived in the sight of the Devil._

_"You fooled me!"_

_The Devil shrugged._

_"A deal is a deal"._

_"That wasn't an honest deal!"._

_The Devil layed down on His throne, making Himself comfortable, with the look of a real avenging king._

_"You talking about honesty, really? I'm immortal, but I never thought I'd see this day"._

_Arlequin was really edgy, but he knowed his Master too well._

_Then he decided to change tack._

_"I'm happy here with you. I really am. I just wish you'd set me free” he whined._

_“You are free. All human beings are”._

_“I'm not. You still treat me like a serf" Arlequin couldn't help accusing Him._

_“And how am I supposed to treat you?”_

_“I don't want to be your servant. I want to be an equal of yours”._

_“An equal of mine?"_

_The Devil laughed, a cruel laughter._

_"And where were you when I rose up against the Almighty?”._

_In answer, Arlequin would only narrow his eyes._

_“Where were you when I was causing wars, death and famine? I've been spreading evilness through the world since when you were nothing but a grain of dust in the air"._

_The Devil stood up, towering over him like a black angel, and for the first time in his life, Arlequin was frightened._

_"You're not my equal, you'll never be. Hell is my home, and I'm its Master and Lord. You're just a guest here. A toy I haven't got tired of yet."_

_After His blast, Hell remained silent._

_No one around. There were just the two of them._

_"A guest" snarled Arlequin “Right. I'll get home, then”._

_And without another word, that very night, Arlequin came out from the Hell’s gates for the last time._

  
  


_And so the Devil found Himself alone._

_The first day, He didn't care._

_The second, He spent the whole day in feastings, orgies and and vices._

_The third, He punished the damned with more bitterness than necessary._

_The fourth, He killed a dozen demons, servants of His, just for fun. It didn't work._

_The fifth, He felt tired, and did something that He hadn't been doing for centuries: He fell asleep._

_The sixth, He hadn't woken up yet._

_The seventh, He did._

_And wondered why, if Arlequin was not there with Him._

_Days went by, but he just wouldn't come back. One. Two. Three. Ten. One hundred._

_After a thousand days without him, the Devil had become a pale wraith of Himself,_

_a faded shadow of the avenging angel who once scared both Paradise and Hell._

_Many damned escaped and came back on the Earth, alive, and no one stopped them._

_Nobody feared Him anymore; nor demons, nor sinners._

_Instead of inflicting punishments and ruling the roost, He just lied keeled over His throne, like an empty sack of wheat._

_"I lost my servant, the best servant a Lord could ever have. I lost the friend of mine, whom I love above everything else, whom I shared all sorts of adventures with. What should I be without him? I can’t even recall how to be evil anymore, if he’s not there to sin with me. I can’t live without my servant, my right arm man, my heart.”_

_And the more the days passed, the more His demonic appearance faded away._

_And that same Devil, little by little, was going back to being what He once had been, and didn't remember He was: human._

_Because the Devil lies, cheats and hurts._

_The Devil was cheated, fooled and wounded._

_He was so madly in love for His servant, that He almost forgot He wasn’t shaped to fall in love._

_And He forgot for so long that He had no heart at all, that He wasn’t forged in human nature, that eventually, He died for real._

  
  


_For many days after His death, everything was silent._

_Hell was empty; all the devils were on Earth._

_Thereupon, crawling like the worm it was, a shadow passed Hell's gates again, and Arlequin came to watch over his Lord._

_And like the worm he was, he crawled on his Master's body, and began devouring His remains, until there was nothing left but dust and bones._

_Then he rose, taller and stronger than ever, and lied down on the throne that once belonged to his Master._

_And so it was that a humble servant became the Master of Hell._

  
  


But hell doesn’t exist, some say.

It’s a pity that Martín’s life is the fucking proof they’re wrong.

So, that’s the tragic backstory. 

Raise the curtain, folks.

You can call it the beginning, the start, the opening, the dawn, the seed, or whatever the fuck you want.

  
  


✯

  
  


_Buenos Aires, 1971_

  
  


His mother loved two things: dancing and new shoes. 

One night in May, she got over both.

She was coming home from a party, a party where she had laughed for the last time.

Just imagine, a tiny woman with brown curls, walking the streets of Buenos Aires at night, with a new pair of red shoes. 

And the streets of Buenos Aires are grey and dusty and full of stones, and while she hurries to come back home, because it’s getting darker and her father will get angry, her foot stumbles in a hole.

A huge hand grabs her arm before it’s too late.

“Got hurt, ma’am?”. 

She raises her eyes. It’s a military man. 

“I’m fine”.

“I’m fine, _sir_ ”.

A voice from behind interrupts her.

She turns around. 

The voice belongs to another military man, tall, strapping, maybe even handsome.

A laughter bursts on her right, and she rolls her eyes to find out there's a third one. 

"You should pay attention, _Caperucita Roja_ " tells the first military, hinting at her shoes, "jt's nearly curfew time". 

His hand is still around her arm.

"Such a buzzkill, Javier" she hears grinning from her right “c’mon, _cariña_ , stay and play a little bit with us”.

She realizes that now all three of them are grinning, and the grip on her elbow is getting stronger and stronger.

“Excuse me”.

She tries to get rid of the vise, but the net's closing around her, and now there's a fourth military, a fourth one which hasn't spoken so far yet.

He wraps his arm around her waist, and she feels her breasts pressing against his chest. 

Her legs are not even touching the ground anymore, and she stirs desperately, feeling sick.

“My father! If I’m not home in a few minutes, he will…"

“And who the fuck is your father, cariña?” asks the one that keeps laughing.

“He's.... a _cartonero_...”

“A _cartonero_ ” he repeats, unstressed.

“Did you hear, Javier? Her father is a _cartonero_!”

“So lucky we’re the police, then!” 

She fights with all her strength, but she's just a little taller than a little girl. 

They knock her to the ground without any effort, and then hit her head with a stone. 

When they mount on her in turn, she can’t see anything because of the blood coming out from her temple, dripping into her eyes.

They leave her body there to be found, in the midst of brushwood and dust.

And over the fear, the rage, the hatred and sickness, under her skin, they leave something else.

The seed of her son is in there, waiting to be found, while drinking her hatred through the umbilical cord.

Growing up silent as a cancer.

  
  


✯

  
  


_Buenos Aires, 1992_

  
  


Something like twenty years ago, in February ‘72, police arrested Robledo Puch, one of the most dangerous criminals in Argentina.

Something like twenty years ago, on the same day, his mother delivered a screaming and quite ugly baby.

To his friends, he says it was a sign of fate, and those look at him with bulging eyes as you do with the mad ones.

Bullshit. He has no friends left to tell.

However, he likes to fuck. He fairly enjoys drinking, dancing, and smoking weed. Things that you can hardly do on your own.

He finds a group of folks and starts pretending to be what he’s not. 

He pretends to be stupid. He pretends to be confident. He pretends to be cruel, sometimes.

Maybe that isn't really a pretend.

Martín doesn't know. He doesn't even want to.

He doesn't really like them. But who cares? Life is just a buying and selling. You give me this, I'll give you that.

Sad but true. If you can still experience sadness.

So that’s it. He now has friends.

He just finds himself thinking that, in some strange way, the price of anything is too high in the fucking _villas miserias._

  
  


✯

  
  


Neighbor's radio is playing a song that goes like _“with the lights out is less dangerous_ ”. 

Martín thinks that's bullshit.

Electricity has been missing for days. And his mother is going crazier than usual.

That’s something he always hated of this fucking barrio. 

He can’t read. He can’t draw. He can’t even fucking piss without stumbling in his own feet.

What’s worse, the whole neighborhood is dark at night.

And nobody has ever taught him not to be afraid of the dark yet.

“Turn that shit off” barks Ma’ out of the window, towards the next house “and switch the power on while you're at it, hijo de puta”. 

When he was younger he almost died of shame, now it's just so fucking hilarious.

Maybe it is because nobody dares to lay a finger on him anymore, since when he stabbed Jaime in the eye with a compass. 

Maybe it is because nobody has the guts to yell it straight in his face, “your mother is a _puta loca_ ”, and then they limit themselves to whispering when he passes. 

And maybe it's because after all it's pointless to explain her that their neighbours are not spying them, or stealing their water and power, and if she really wants to blame someone, she should go after those who dumped Martín in her belly almost twenty years ago, which are responsible today as it was then. 

But what does he know?

He doesn't give a fuck about politics, police here, government there, but then at the end of the day they're always on the same side to fuck poor people better.

If you're smart, or at least quick, you know for sure you must keep away from both.

And Martín knows a couple of things about this. 

Police, you die.

Jail, you die.

Drugs, you die.

No drinks, you die.

No food, you die.

No fucking escape from villas miserias, you die.

He thinks about his mother, and then himself, born in a shitty barrio that maybe a thousand years ago must have been covered in gold.

“We were great people” he often hears her whispering “and look at us now”.

_Yeah_ , he thinks, his eyes fixed out of the window, on the trash, the dust, the dead dogs and paco dealers, _look at us now_.

  
  


✯

  
  


His mother somehow has already guessed he's not attracted to girls, and she couldn't care less, like she does with all the aspects of his life.

She may be nuts, but she's not dumb.

“You’re not good looking” she tells him ever more frequently “and you’re not nice. You’re not even interesting. The best you can hope for is that you nail someone rich and stupid enough not to see the difference”. 

“I’m smart” he replies, unsure.

“Smart” she repeats sardonically, the sound annoying like a bad word “nowadays nobody cares”.

And really, Martín thinks she might have a point. His silly dreams of glory, his mind too fast to be real, in this place they simply don't make any sense.

  
  


“Why did you keep me?” he once asked her.

“I couldn’t find an abortion under dictatorship”.

He comes home for dinner, and for dinner there’s nothing to eat.

  
  


✯

  
  


He enjoys walking in the rain, even when it looks more like a tropical storm. 

When he was younger, he always imagined that one day, the wind would have risen strong enough to carry him away, out of this barrio, out of Buenos Aires, out of Argentina, Latin America just a distant point, a tiny stain on his new life.

He broke that habit a long time ago. Daydreaming was never good to him.

And now he just walks in the rain, already soaked to the skin, thinking of all and nothing, his stomach eaten up from hunger.

It’s almost getting dark, and he's thinking about stealing something to eat in uptown, when he feels a couple of headlights digging in his back. 

A car stops right beside him, and the driver's side window slowly comes down.

On the seat there's a bloke in his late 40s, who has the air of one with a lot of money, and no moral code. 

“D’you want a ride, _cariño_?” 

Martín swallows.

The dude's not even attractive. He looks quite slick, in fact.

“Why not?” he answers, more to himself than to him, trying to hide his shaky voice.

He opens the passenger's door and gets in.

  
  


_Why not,_ his head's asking, when in a matter of minutes, a huge hand makes its way up on his thigh, and digs through his soaking jeans. 

_Why not_ , he asks himself, when once they're done, the bloke falls asleep on him, and holding his repulsion, still half naked, he manages to crawl towards the front seat, where the asshole left his clothes. 

_Why not_ , he thinks, while he rummages in his pants, pulls the wallet out, and pockets it without even emptying it from the documents.

_Why not_ , his brain's yelling while he gets dressed, sneaks out from the car, gets home and hides the bills in the back of a drawer, swearing to himself he won't ever touch a pesos even when he'll be starving to death, because he needs these money to run away from that shitty life, to become someone, not just one who gets fucked on a seat-back for a few bucks.

  
  


✯

  
  


It doesn't last. 

A couple of weeks later, a dude with big colorful boots and a huge handlebar mustache comes after him. He calls himself Joaquim, and says that's not good, he can't just work on his turf like this, like a mad dog. 

Martín says nothing, while the bloke reels off crap about protection, blown deals, and other bullshit that quickly turns into threats. He shrugs and goes to the point, asking him what the fuck does he want to leave him alone. 

Next time, he thinks that's not how he expected to end up, sitting on a brickwork, with an engineering handbook open on his knees and a pencil in his teeth while he hopes that cars won't stop.

Too bad they do.

  
  


✯

  
  


_"The neighbors"._

_"What?"_

_"They're spying on us"._

_"No, Ma'. They're not"._

_"Don't call me that"._

She doesn't ask where he's been for days.

She never does. 

  
  


✯

  
  


The worsts, whose he can’t really stand, are the fuckin’ family men.

Just as he gets in their cars full of crumbs of crackers, they start to scan him with that pity look, like you stare at a three-legged puppy or anything.

Then, the questions begin.

“Don’t you have a family?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Where’s your mother? Your father?”

Sometimes he just laughs. Sometimes he shrugs. Sometimes he sticks to the wall and gets fucked.

“My father was a raper” he replies once.

They don’t ask anymore.

  
  


✯

  
  


A client brings him to a motel, one of those by the hour full of couples and trannies, and after fucking him, he offers him a bump of coke.

Martín is worn out, he hasn't slept in days, his joints hurt and the bloody formulas won't get out of his head. 

No way he's going to refuse.

  
  


He was neither the first nor the last to behave like this.

If you run into the rich ones, they grant you pills or even doses of heroin. They consider it part of the payment. 

Martín doesn't touch heroin, but he shoves in his mouth or up to his nose any other shit.

It helps to study and keep his mind off at the same time.

He's quite sure he wouldn't even manage to leave his bed properly, without his stash.

Waking up is getting increasingly difficult lately.

But Martín still awakes.

  
  


✯

  
  


There's a dude always sitting next to him while he's working, hardly an adult. 

Martín can't figure out whether it's a boy or a girl, due to the shaved head and the showy earrings. However, it looks like clients really appreciate that, even though the dude comes back with bruises and a shiner sometimes.

"Are you an undergraduate?" they ask him one day while he's bending over his handbook.

"No. I'm not".

"But you're clever".

Martín wants to laugh until he cries.

"Not really".

"Teach me to read?".

Martín eyes the black car at a distance. It's a regular, looking for him. 

He closes the book and gets off the brickwork.

"Maybe another time".

The boy who looks like a girl just shrugs.

He never sees them again.

Martín doesn't know whether that boy or that girl has ever learned to read. 

He's not even sure they're still alive.

He's not even sure he's still alive himself.

Even though he doesn't know why, Martín awakes.

  
  


✯

  
  


It’s not like he really quit with thieving. Especially now that he’s forced to share his gains with that Joaquim dick, the fucking pimp with that clown boots.

The thing is that most of the clients don’t bother where their clothes go when they fuck. Or where Martín’s fingers slip when he gives them a blowjob with their underwear still on.

In hotel rooms it's easier. Usually clients fall asleep, while he can't even catch any shut-eye, full of shit as he is.

Money is right there, he just has to… 

He slips wallets out of pockets and rifles them, silent as a cat.

Martín awakes. 

He rifles another wallet.

Martín awakes.

Day by day by day by client.

Martín awakes.

He can’t find anything to eat. 

He sniffs coke instead.

His jaw starts to hurt. His teeth are going rotten. His life as well. 

But like all the things eaten up from the inside, he doesn't realize it until it's too late.

Martín awakes. 

  
  


His hands are trembling. A tooth is swinging. And sometimes his head kind of snaps strangely. 

Some of those morons must have cut meth with the bloody paco.

A thought crosses his mind.

_In a while you’ll be so full of holes that no one’ll want to fuck you anymore._

And when it happens, he hopes to die of the quickest and painless death he can. 

But so far, Martín awakes.

  
  


✯

  
  


It was a shitty time, but looking back it seemed almost decent, taken as he was by the intoxication of drugs and money in his pockets.

It was after that things started to get worse.

It started by chance, without thinking, as well as most of Martín’s turning points.

  
  


“I said fifty”.

“Fifty? That’s fucking theft”.

“Fifty. Take or leave”.

The client stares at him as if he were a piece of rotten meat.

“Do you think you’re worth so much? You’re short. And wasted. How long have you not slept?”

“That’s none of your fucking business. Listen, I changed my mind.”

“Wait!”

“Sorry, not in the mood anymore”.

As it turned out, Martín’s bluffs don’t always work. But this time, he’s going to find it out in the worst way, while he gets grabbed by his neck, pushed to the ground, punched, beaten, robbed, undressed, and then thrown into the ditch on the edge of the road. 

It’s only in the morning that he manages to move enough to crawl out, naked, chilled and badly wounded.

At 5.03 a. m., a patrol sees a young boy limping on the road against traffic, with no documents, no clothes and no dignity at all, and for good measure throws him in jail. 

While he keeps his head resting on the wall, mascara pours and then dries on his cheeks, and he feels totally pathetic.

It’s 5.27 a. m. Time to sleep. 

But once again, Martín awakes.

  
  


✯

  
  


"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Shut up".

"With your life, I mean. What are you even doing with your life?"

“Fuck you”.

“That's my guy”.

“I don't really want to talk with you right now”.

"Well, you don't have much of a choice, don't you?"

Martín sighs.

"Leave me alone, Andrés".

Under the prison's dim light, Andrés looks even more beautiful, almost deadly. His dark eyes have never been so shining, while he pronounces the next words.

"You can't stay here. You know that, right? You will die, if you stay".

"In jail?"

"In Argentina".

"And where the fuck am I supposed to go?" he snarls "he'll kill me if I disappear with the money! And my mother, God, my mother…"

"She'll be fine".

"How the fuck do you know, eh? You don't even know her!".

"But I do know you".

Andrés remains silent for a while. Then he adds:

“If you can’t beat them with strength, play dirty. Break their heads with a bat and then call’em faggot. Show’em what you are capable of".

“I’m not capable of anything”.

“You are. You are stunning, and clever, and beautiful. You’re not made to work the streets, you’re made to do great things. To conceive genius plans or to make history. To be covered with gold and loved”.

Martín wants to ask him what game he is playing at, and then laugh in the ugliest way he can. 

He brushes his cheek, and finds it wet instead.

“Why...” he says, thinking about the black tears that stain his fingers, the lasts he'll cry for a very long time “why did you leave me alone, then?"

Andrés looks like a marble block, still, unmoving, unreal. Dead.

"Why didn’t you tell me this, when we met? Why did nobody ever tell me? Why did you never tell me this?”

“Because that wasn’t me, Martín. We didn't meet here. I’m just a memory. I’m not even there”.

“Where are you, then?”

“Not there”.

Martín awakes.

  
  


✯

  
  


_Palermo, now_

  
  


Martín awakes, his eyes still full of memories, and this time, there's Andrés in flesh and blood standing in his filthy entrance.

And he just wants to hug him, punch him, fuck him, yell at him and then kiss him, and then over and over again.

But there's something holding him back, and suddenly his brain feels dizzy and numb. 

Andrés looks the same as always, stunning, dressed in fine clothes, an expression that could be mistaken for neutral, but never by Martín, who can always read him to perfection.

However, there's something...

There’s surely something, something happened yesterday night, something he can’t remember, no matter how much he tries, something about Andrés…

But in reality, all these moments when you think about maximum systems and everything is freezed don’t exist.

Andrés reaches out his hand, and the spell is broken.

“Don’t you touch me”.

And he's not real, that's for sure. But he surely feels like him.

"Martín..."

“How did you get in?”

Andrés just raises an eyebrow.

“I broke the lock”.

Typical.

“You’re alive”.

For the first time, the corner of Andrés’ perfect mouth curls into something like a smile.

“Let’s say so”. 

And Martín can't help freaking out.

It's the smile, the silly fucking smile on Andrés faces, that face not aged a day since he left, the same freaking face he was forced to watch on the TV, expressionless as usual, unaware that a few thousands of miles away, Martín was considering to hang himself on a chandelier.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” he hisses, because he doesn't feel strong enough to shout “what the fuck this should mean?”

“Martín-”

“You were dead. You were fuckin’ stone dead. I saw the pictures of your damn corpse on the TV. Christ, Andrés...”

“That was not me”.

“Oh, now here it comes! The fucking plot twist! How can you say...”

“Because I’m in fucking front of you!”

After the burst, Andrés bends his head, inhaling. 

He looks tired, maybe even exhausted.

"Sergio…"

"Don't you dare mention your brother in front of me".

“Martín. You’re angry. I understand this.”

“You do? Funny, it would be the first time you can detect an emotion”.

“Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t care?”

“What do you want, a fucking thanks?” 

All the wounds on his chest left by Andres’s kiss seem to reopen again. 

“I thought you were dead! Do you have any idea how it was? I had to watch your dead body dragged away in a plastic bag!”.

“I’m sorry”.

“You’re…” a bitter stream of bile goes up to his mouth, and he refrains from spitting it on his face. 

“Why. Tell me why. And this time, you must be convincing”.

A silly question that contains many thousands, why did you kiss me, why did you leave me, why did you lie to me, why did you make me believe you were dead, why did you come back now, why, why, why…

And the answer that comes out from Andrés' lips is nowhere near as exhaustive.

Because Andrés never answers anything.

But for Martín it's enough, and he clings to it like a kid to his mother's hand.

“To come back to you".

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Me & the Devil" playing in the background*
> 
> Hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Last time I forgot to say that the title of this story comes from the song
> 
> ["Your Anchor" by Asaf Avidan](https://youtu.be/p9M0FWAi51U)  
>   
> Quick follow-up about Arlequin's tale: in my country, and according to my Comedy Art teacher, there are several reasonable grounds (and legends) which feature Arlequin becoming the Master of Hell after tricking an entire court of demons.  
> For more details, I recommend googling "Herle King".
> 
> Paco is a well-known drug in Argentina, very popular in '90s and quite cheap, with consequent devastating effects.
> 
> English is not my first language, and this is very hard for me to write, so I apologize for (several) mistakes.  
> I know this story is quite atypical, but I'd really appreciate to know what you think.
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://signorin-anarchia.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Please, let me know what do you think about it, I would appreciate kudos, comments, and even silent readings very much.  
> See you soon! xxx


End file.
